Ex  Libris 
C.  K.  OGDEN    ' 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


£. 


PILGRIMAGE 


PILGRIMAGE 


POEMS 


BY 


ERIC    SHEPHERD 


LONGMANS,    GREEN,    AND    CO. 

39    PATERNOSTER    ROW,    LONDON 

FOURTH    AVENUE    &    SOTH    STREET,    NEW    YORK 

BOMBAY,   CALCUTTA,    AND   MADRAS 

1916 


KK 

6031 
$543^ 


i 


TO    MY    BEST    FRIEND 

NORMAN  FELIX  HARDY,  O.S.B. 

THIS    BOOK    IS    AFFECTIONATELY    DEDICATED 

NORMAN,  I  've  known  you  by  most  numerous  names, 
As  you  have  me,  by  names  without  an  end : 
But  one  has  chief,  as  all  have  differing  claims, 
'  Comrade'  let 's  call  it — or  let 's  call  it  'friend.' 

Comrade  you  were  :  my  friend  you  always  are. 
Life  cannot  part  us,  though  our  ways  it  can. 
In  one  king's  service,  'neath  a  separate  star, 
You  are  His  Lancelot,  I  His  Dinadan. 

Your  praise  I  look  for,  as  your  words  I  hear  ; 
It  has  been  so,  so  is,  and  so  shall  be : 
Your  name  is  like  good  music  in  my  ear  ; 
Like  ease  and  health,  like  home,  your  face  to  me. 

Take  then  these  things  :  their  maker  sets  the  measure 
Of  his  success  as  they  shall  give  you  pleasure. 


a'2 


THE  author  is  indebted  to  the  Editor 
of  the  Oxford  University  Magazine 
for  permission  to  reprint  the  poem 
'Thessaly.'  All  the  others  appear 
now  for  the  first  time. 


CONTENTS 

PACK 

TO    NORMAN    FELIX    HARDY,    O.S.B.  ...  V 

THE    PILGRIM          ......  I 

WHO'S   THE    POET?         .....  2 

THESSALY    .  .  .  ...  .  .  4 

THE    BOYHOOD    OP    ORPHEUS  ....  6 

SOLITUDE     .  .  .  .  .  .  .14 

THE    HAPPY    SAINT  .  .  .  .  -15 

CYNTHIA      .  .  .  .  .  .  -I? 

TO    MARJORIE         .  .  .  .  .  .          18 

SONG  .......          20 

HEROIC    DEATH     .  .  .  .  .  .21 

TO    OXE    OF    THE    FALLEN        .  .  .  .22 

THE    NARCISSUS     .  .  .  .  .  .23 

A    BALLAD    OF    THE    NATIVITY  .  .  .24 

A    CASUAL   ELEGY  .  .  .  .  .28 

TO    A    DEAD    FACE  .....          29 

ix 


x  PILGRIMAGE 

PAGE 

TO   THE    HOUSE   WHERE    MY    FATHER   DIED  .          30 

A    GETHSEMANE  ....  •          31 

THE    SANDHILLS   ....  •           32 

EDEN -34 

THE   FALL   o'   THE   YEAR         .             .  -35 

THEIR    HERITAGE             .             .             .             .  •          3$ 

SPRING,    1915            ....  -38 

LA    MAISON    DU    BERGER            .             .  -39 

THK    ANNUNCIATION       ....  40 

GENEROUS    YOUTH             .  41 

HOME  .....  -43 
THE  LITTLE  WAY  .....  45 
THAT  NOT  IMPOSSIBLE  SHE  ....  46 

SHELLEY      .....  .48 

EVENING  IN  ITALY      .....       49 

THE  QUEST  OF  THE  MOUNTAINS    .          .         -51 
EVENSONG  .         .         .         .         .         -59 

DESIRE  OF  THE  SEA    .....       60 

WHITBY  PIER       ......       62 

BENEDICT'S  MONKS       .....       64 

THE    BEST    .  66 


CONTENTS  xi 

I'AGE 

THE    APPROACHING    STORM        .  .  .  .          67 

THE   TRANSCENDENTAL   SUMMER-TERM      .  .          68 

BATHING       ....  •?! 

THE   TRUANT  .  .  .  .  .  .72 

THE    NIGHTINGALE  .  .  .  .  .74 

TO    A    LADY  .  .  ,  .  .  -77 

TO    THE    ROSES    ON    MY    WALL  .  .78 

MACHINERY  '  .  .  .  .  .  -79 

THE    HILL    .......          80 

'  I  BLESS  PEACE '      .....    83 

THE  FRONT      .     .  .     .      .84 

THE    MILITARY    HOSPITAL         .  .  .  -85 

TO    ROBERT   LOUIS    STEVENSON  ...          86 

TO    IVAN    TURGENEV        .  .  .  .  -87 

TO    JANE    AUSTEN  .....          88 

TO    MONTAIGNE      ......          89 

TO    AN    OLD    WOMAN    SITTING    BY    A    GRAVE         .          90 
TO    THE    CATHOLIC    CHAPEL,   THAME  .  .          91 

4  GREAT      SPIRITS      NOW     ON    EARTH      ARE      SO- 
JOURNING'  .  .  .  .  .  .92 

TO    IRELAND  ......          93 


xii  PILGRIMAGE 

PAGE 

A    HARD    SAYING  .....          94 

THE    VICTORY    OF   THE    WISE  .  .  .  -95 

RHYMES    FOR  THE    ROAD  .  .  .  -97 

DESIRE   AND   ACHIEVEMENT    ....          99 
DESIRE    AND    ACHIEVEMENT    .  IOO 


THE   PILGRIM 

IN  sober  garments  clad.,  his  staff  in  hand, 
The  pilgrim  fares ;  and  comes  by  devious  ways 
Past  ancient  land-marks,  'neath  the  austere  gaze 
Of  mountains,  and  through  forest-depths  unscanned. 
By  water  sometimes,  and  again  by  land, 
His  long  quest  leads  him :  often  too  he  strays, 
Loathing  his  path,  and  so  for  many  days 
Wanders  'mid  stones  and  over  wastes  of  sand. 

By  day  the  fierce  sun  smites  him,  as  by  night 
The  moon  rebukes,  and  all  the  hostile  powers 
Of  earth  assail ;  the  while  he  longs  for  ease  : 
Yet  still  he  journeys,  for  his  soul  still  sees 
That  last  horizon,  where  the  unbuilded  towers 
Shine  in  clear  beams  of  uncreated  light. 


PILGRIMAGE 


WHO'S   THE   POET? 

WHO  's  the  poet  ?     He 's  the  fellow 
God  hath  dressed  in  red  and  yellow  ! 

Who 's  the  poet  ?     He 's  the  fool 
Never  rose  in  this  world's  school ; 
Never -wore  the  world's  degree, 
Practised  not  her  polity ! 

Who 's  the  poet  ?     He 's  the  person 
God  hath  laid  His  blessing's  curse  on  ! 
God  hath  given  words  and  wings, 
Led  unto  the  heart  of  things ; 
God  hath  shown  what  sort  of  place 
High  heaven  is — His  own  dread  Face 
Unveiled  a  little  now  and  then  ! 

To  the  poet  alone  of  men 

God  hath  made  the  fourth  dimension 

Certainty,  and  no  contention : 

To  the  poet,  and  him  alone, 

God  His  privacies  hath  shown, 

Dazzling  his  poor  eyes  with  vision, 

Crowning  him,  the  world's  derision, 

Crowning  him,  a  king  alone 

On  a  high  unhomaged  throne ; 


WHO'S  THE  POET? 

Spreading  to  his  eyes  a  feast 
Which  his  flesh  may  never  taste  ; 
Luring  him  with  faint  aromas, 
Lulling  him  with  heavy  comas, 
Beckoning  him  he  knows  not  whither, 
Till,  with  straining  at  his  tether, 
All  his  members  throb  and  ache — 
Haunting  him  till  he  forsake 
All  he  has,  and  follow  after 
That  far  lilt  of  heavenly  laughter, 
That  fierce  gleam  of  heavenly  joy, 
Which  his  rest  doth  quite  destroy. 

What  the  world  in  secret  knows 
He 's  the  poet  that  dares  disclose. 

What  the  world  can  dumbly  feel 
He  's  the  poet  that  shall  reveal. 

Where  the  world  is  overthrown 
He 's  the  poet  rides  on  alone. 

What  the  world  forfends  in  fear 
He 's  the  poet  that  lingers  near. 

What  the  world  laughs  down  in  scorn 
He  's  the  poet  hath  most  up-borne. 

He 's  the  poet  that  will  not  sway 
From  his  vision's  truth  away. 


PILGRIMAGE 


THESSALY 

ALL  day  the  halloo  of  our  hunting, 

All  evening  the  lilt  of  our  song ; 

For  we  all  were  young  together, 

And  we  all  were  swift  and  strong. 

Hill,  valley  and  stream,  in  the  daytime, 

And  home  when  the  sun  sank  low, 

Where  we  laved  our  limbs  in  the  burn  that  brims 

From  the  far  peak's  stainless  snow. 

Oh,  those  long  blue  moonlit  evenings 

When  we  wrangled  and  laughed  and  sang, 

Till  the  fire-lit  cave  re-echoed, 

And  the  pendent  armour  rang ! 

And  the  oft-told  tales  of  heroes 

That  we  called  for  once  again, 

For  we  never  could  tire  of  the  sweet-toned  lyre 

And  the  singer's  golden  strain  ! 

Came  silence  like  a  presence, 
And  the  wan  sound  of  the  seas  : 
Fled  Dian  fleet  and  flaming 
Midmost  her  sacred  trees : 


THESSALY 

Stole  Sleep  his  arms  around  us, 
Whose  eyes  make  all  things  one 
In  silence  deep,  and — did  we  sleep  ? 
lo,  lo,  king  Sun  ! 


PILGRIMAGE 


THE   BOYHOOD   OF   ORPHEUS 

SWEET,  sweet  the  dawn,  when  from  the  dazzling 

crest 

Of  sky-gone  Pelion  the  mists  dissolve 
Into  the  sunrise,  leaving  him  all  bare 
In  naked  grandeur,  fearful  and  serene. 

At  dawn  upon  the  hill-slopes,  and  at  noon 
'Mid  the  cool  forests,  goes  he  forth  alone, 
The  fair  boy  Orpheus,  tuning  his  wild  harp 
Unto  the  song-birds  and  the  madrigal-breeze. 

Unscarred  is  his  wide  brow,  but  o'er  his  face 
The  delicate  cob-web  of  remembered  dreams 
Is  woven  always,  and  across  his  eyes 
Strange  fancies  flit  like  shadows  o'er  some  tarn. 

Blithely  he  walks,  and  carelessly  ;  nor  yet 
He  dreams  Eurydice,  whose  twice-wept  loss 
Shall  leave  him  joyless,  and  his  latter  days 
Condemn  to  loneliness  in  desert  wilds. 


THE  BOYHOOD  OF  ORPHEUS  7 

No  spear  has  he ;  across  his  shoulders  bare 
No  quiver  is  slung  of  arrows  swi  ''t  and  keen  : 
But  in  his  hand  he  bears  a  golden  harp — 
Safer  with  this  than  with  a  hundred  darts. 

The  haughty  lion  walks  by  him,  in  his  hand 
Nuzzling  its  nose ;  the  leopards  long  and  lithe 
Gambol  around  him ;  and  the  tiny  birds 
Perch  on  his  shoulders,  learning  of  his  song. 

The  wood-snakes  hear  him,  and  with  sinuous  glee 
Ripple  before  him ;  and  the  great  brown  bears 
Cut  cumbrous  capers  ;  and  the  squirrels  cock 
Their  cheeky  ears  and  tail  to  hear  him  sing. 

The  wolves  like  dogs  slink  humbly  at  his  heels, 
Their  fierce  eyes  softened,  and  their  wiry  tail 
Wagging  for  pleasure  ;  when  he  passes  by 
The  fish  rise  swiftly  from  their  larders  cool. 

The  doe  unto  him  leads  her  brittle  fawns 

To  skip  around  his  path,  nor  looks  askance 

On  the  gruff  lion,  who  t'ward  the  new-comers  slim 

Turns  golden  eyes  whence  thirsty  rage  is  gone. 

He  leads  them  all — the  fawns  and  lean  red  wolves, 
The  great  fierce  cats,  the  tiny  hopping  birds, 
The  silvery  grass-snakes,  the  huge  clumsy  bears — 
All  soothed,  all  spellbound, 'neath  his  wondrous  song. 


8  PILGRIMAGE 

In  mountain-torrents  and  in  woodland  tarns 
He  bathes  at  noonday ;  and,  emerging  thence, 
Stands  like  a  god,  all  naked  on  the  brink, 
His  hair  flung  backward,  his  gold  limbs  agleam. 

The  boughs  caress  him,  and  the  flowers  unto 
His  curling  nostrils  waft  their  incense  rare ; 
The  moss  responds  beneath  his  springing  feet, 
The  waters  clothe  him  like  soft  raiment  round. 

The  mountains  know  him ;  and  the  inmost  glades 
Of  darkling  forests  are  his  bowers  of  ease  : 
The  sunbeams  seek  him,  and  the  wandering  winds 
Are  his  companions  all  the  live-long  day. 

The  cool  rains  wash  him ;   and  the   sea's   brusque 

waves 

Jostle  each  other  in  their  race  toward 
His  passing  feet,  when,  mirrored  on  the  smooth 
Wet  sand,  he  wanders  by  the  flowing  tide. 

The  dolphins  hear  him ;  and  from  where  they  climb 
The  sea's  huge  shoulders  o'er  the  horizon's  rim 
Come  rolling  shoreward,  through  the  buoyant  surf 
Urging  a  pathway  with  their  eager  snouts. 

The  sea-gulls  hear  him — like  storm-tattered  cloud 
They  wheel  around  him  with  the  shudder  of  wings ; 
The  tiny  crabs,  their  pin-point  eyes  on  fire, 
Come  scampering  upward  from  their  rocky  lairs. 


THE  BOYHOOD  OF  ORPHEUS  9 

The  limpets  loose  them  to  let  in  the  sound  ; 
The  winkles  peer  from  out  their  shelly  forts ; 
The  star-fish  trembles,  and  the  urchin  shakes 
His  tangled  sea-beard  in  his  pool  profound. 

Afloat  far  out,  the  very  jelly-fish 

Has  qualms  of  pleasure  when  the  blithe  sound  skims 

The  air  above  him  ;  and,  insensible 

To  aught  beside,  to  this  his  life  responds. 

What  sings  young  Orpheus,  that  the  natural  world 
Draws  nigh  to  listen,  a  so  joyous  ear 
Lends  to  his  singing  ?     That  the  lion  forgoes 
His  hunting,  and  the  doe  her  green  retreats  ? 

'Tis  happiness  he  sings  !     The  happiness 
Of  every  separate  thing — the  grasses'  joy 
To  be  so  fine  and  thin ;  the  waters'  bliss 
To  be  so  cool ;  the  wind's  to  be  all  soul. 

Unto  each  life  he  speaks  :  the  very  worm 
Is  suddenly  conscious  of  the  sweet  moist  earth  ; 
The  beetle  likes  his  wings ;  and  in  his  legs 
The  crawling  centipede  takes  sudden  joy. 

The  lion  in  his  haut  strength,  the  timid  doe 
In  her  slim  beauty,  in  his  fur  the  bear, 
The  wolf  in  his  white  tusks,  in  his  bright  scales 
The  rippling  wood-snake,  feels  a  conscious  joy. 


10  PILGRIMAGE 

The  birds,  in  its  shrill  sweetness,  hear  what  song 
Their  own  throats  yield,  and  in  the  nimble  air 
Have  sensible  freedom  ;  the  soft-swaying  boughs 
Have  live  flirtation  with  the  humorous  breeze. 

The  waves  behold  their  glorious  crests  of  foam  ; 
The  circling  sea-gulls  preen  their  strong  white  wings  ; 
The  star-fish  feels  a  star;  the  jelly-fish 
Beholds  the  rich  dyes  of  his  amorphous  shape. 

The  rose  regards  her  queen-ship;  all  the  flowers 
Smell  their  own  fragrance,  and  the  breeze  implore 
To  waft  it  backward  ;  while  the  breeze  becomes 
Suddenly  jealous  of  his  ravished  sweets. 

The  fish,  far  down  in  his  deep  realms  of  shade, 
Reflects  upon  his  gills — how,  but  for  them, 
The  water  which  he  loves  would  choke  him — and 
Wriggles  for  pleasure  at  his  own  good-hap. 

The  tadpole,  wondering  at  his  sire  the  frog, 
Knows  in  a  flash  that  some  bright  day  he  too 
Shall  boast  green  legs  and  apt  prehensile  arms 
Wherewith  to  stretch  unto  his  heart's  desire. 

He  sang  the  night !"    The  night,  that  mantles  all 
The  trees  with  darkness,  and  the  brattling  streams 
Hushes  beneath  it,  as  young  children  are 
Charmed  from  their  playing  by  low- whispered  tales. 


THE  BOYHOOD  OF  ORPHEUS    11 

He  sang  the  night,  whose  lady  is  the  moon, 
Whose  gift  is  sleep,  whose  kisses  are  the  dew, 
Whose  voice  is  silence,  and  whose  music  is 
The  soundless  chiming  of  the  myriad  stars. 

He  sang  the  night,  which  lendeth  unto  men 
A  healing  respite  from  the  too-candid  eyes 
Of  day,  and  weaveth  over  all  the  earth 
The  dear  enchantment  of  forgetfulness. 

He  sang  the  snow,  which  tingles  to  the  moon ; 
The  forest-depths  unscanned  of  any  eye ; 
The  naked  mountains,  towering  through  the  dark 
Into  the  frolic  of  the  dancing  stars. 

He  sang  the  stars,  which  equally  look  down 
On  every  man  alike,  and  scroll  upon 
The  vast  free  surface  of  the  unbounded  sky 
An  heavenly  cipher  which  the  wise  may  read. 

He  sang  the  swift  far-cleaving  dreams  of  men, 
That  vault  the  moon  and  leave  the  stars  behind, 
Which  snap  their  fingers  at  the  blazing  sun, 
And  storm  incontinent  the  throne  of  God. 

He  sang  of  beauty,  and  of  just  desire, 
Of  sweet  assignments  'mid  the  flowers  of  Spring  ; 
Of  wedded  love,  that,  meeting  in  the  night, 
Peoples  the  earth  with  loveliness  and  strength. 


12  PILGRIMAGE 

He  sang  of  Love,  whose  empire  hath  no  end, 
That  humbleth  Death,  and  lifteth  to  the  sky 
Man's  soul  in  worship,  tempering  his  strength 
With*  sovereign  ruth,  his  weakness  making  strong. 


And  men,  rapt  skyward  by  the  revealing  song, 
Feel  they  are  deathless;  for  their  soul  betrays 
An  intimate  kinship  with  the  hand  that  made, 
The    heart    that    loves,    their    beauty    and    their 
strength. 

And  women,  all  melting  to  the  tender  song, 
Feel  unborn  children  crowd  around  their  knee, 
See  love  unto  them  in  the  dawn-lit  eyes 
Of  peerless  babies  crowing  in  their  arms. 

And  children,   hearkening,  feel   their  own  sweet 

youth 
Thrill  through  their  veins,  and  of  their  own  fresh 

limbs 

Grow  keenly  conscious,  till  for  very  joy 
They  leap  into  the  air  and  clap  their  hands. 

And  old  men,  listening,  with  that  chastened  calm — 

Age's  kind  solace — see  their  own  past  days 

As  gentle  ghosts,  and  death  desirable, 

A  gracious  presence  beckoning  in  the  shade. 


THE  BOYHOOD  OF  ORPHEUS    13 

Such  was  the  song,  which,  wandering  o'er  the  land 
From  Chiron's  cave,  young  Orpheus  sang — e'er  yet 
He  dreamed  Eurydice,  whose  twice-wept  loss 
Condemned  to  loneliness  his  latter  days. 

Such  was  the  song ! 

At  evening  he  returns 
To  sleep  amid  the  heroes ;  while  the  earth 
Wears  robes  of  darkness,  and  the  hoary  head 
Of  sky-gone  Pelion  a  crown  of  stars. 


14  PILGRIMAGE 


SOLITUDE 

SHE  dwells  in  forests  ;  and  cool  springs  beside 
She  stirs  light-footed  ;  and  she  flits  along 
The  sea's  fresh  margin  when  the  clear  sky  is 
Mirrored  at  evening  on  the  smooth  wet  sands. 

Twilight  her  frock  is,  and  the  stars  her  crown ; 
Her  voice  is  silence,  and  the  breezes  low 
Are  her  cool  fingers ;  and  her  kisses  are 
Moments  of  bliss  that  come  and  come  unbidden. 


THE  HAPPY  SAINT  15 


THE  HAPPY  SAINT 

As  the  waters  leap  and  sparkle, 
Growing  fuller  and  more  free, 
Growing  swifter  and  more  joyful, 
As  they  hasten  to  the  sea ; 
So,  my  happy  Saint,  your  life  was, 
That  nor  rest  nor  respite  knew 
Till  to  God  it  gave  and  rendered 
All  the  freshness  that  was  you. 

As  a  child,  that  of  a  sudden 
Sees  outstretched  his  mother's  arms, 
Runs  to  meet  them,  panting,  gleeful, 
Recking  nought  all  other  charms; 
So,  my  happy  Saint,  your  life  was — 
Just  a  glance,  a  rush,  a  spring, 
And  a  million  things  forgotten 
In  the  rapture  of  one  thing. 

Sacrifice,  renunciation ! — 
These  are  words  you  did  not  know : 
Does  a  child  renounce  his  playthings 
T'ward  those  open  arms  to  go  ? 


16  PILGRIMAGE 

Is  it  sacrifice  to  leave  them, 
When  he  hastes  to  know  that  bliss 
Of  loving  arms  around  him  closely, 
On  his  face  that  longed-for  kiss  ? 

No,  the  waters  never  hastened 
T'ward  the  welcome  of  the  sea  ; 
And  no  child  was  e'er  desirous 
In  his  mother's  arms  to  be  ; 
As,  my  happy  Saint,  your  spirit 
(Which  nor  rest  nor  respite  knew) 
Unto  God  to  give  and  render 
All  the  freshness  that  was  you. 


CYNTHIA  17 


CYNTHIA 

IN  a  fair  garden,  where  the  roses  blow 
Yellow  and  red,  where  wonderful  blue  flowers 
And  pink  carnations  blend  tlieir  differing  show, 
I  walked  with  Cynthia  in  the  morning  hours. 

The  heavenly  stadium  shone,  a  turquoise  clear, 
O'er  whose  high  course,  ambrosial  locks  agleam, 
Darting  his  shafts,  the  heavenly  charioteer 
Flung  loose  the  reins  upon  his  blazing  team. 

On  Cynthia's  cheeks  are  roses  'yond  compare ; 
When  Cynthia  wakes,  the  ineffable  blue  sky 
Beholds  its  equal ;  at  her  bright  gold  hair 
In  jealous  ire  the  very  sun-steeds  shy. 

But  Cynthia  is  too  fair  !     Those  charms,  that  strew 
With  hearts  her  path,  her  air  that  gust  with  sighs, 
May  ne'er  be  mine.  ...  So  I  will  hence  and  woo 
My  twilight  maiden  with  the  veiled  grey  eyes. 


18  PILGRIMAGE 


TO  MARJORIE 

ON   HER   WEDDING 

THEY  tell  me  Marjorie  is  wed. 

(Ring  out,  ye  joyous  bells  ! ) 
I  think  I  see  her  crowned  head, 
Her  fair  white  robe  and  conscious  tread ! 

Oh,  Marjorie  excels ! 

I  knew  her  when  she  went  to  school. 

(Ring  out,  ye  joyous  bells!  ) 
We  used  to  meet,  and  as  a  rule 
We  bowed  with  state — I  felt  a  fool ; 

But  Marjorie  excels  ! 

I  can't  believe  that  we  are  grown. 

(Ring  out,  ye  joyous  bells  ! ) 
But  now  she 's  married  all  must  own, 
Ascending  to  a  woman's  throne, 

Our  Marjorie  excels  ! 

She  used  to  love  an  ancient  knight. 

(Ring  out,  ye  joyous  bells  ! ) 
He  was  a  most  stupendous  sight ! — 
But,  now  she  loves  a  living  wight, 

Oh,  Marjorie  excels  ' 


TO  MARJORIE  19 

I  made  up  poems  for  her  to  see. 

(King  out,  ye  joyous  bells  !  ) 
And  she  was  very  kind  to  me, 
Which  shows  as  plain  as  plain  can  be 

That  Marjorie  excels ! 

I  liked  her  dearly  when  we  played. 

(Ring  out,  ye  joyous  bells  !  ) 
And  now  that  she  a  bride  is  made 
I  wish  her  all  that  she  has  prayed  : 

And  Marjorie  excels ! 


20  PILGRIMAGE 


SONG 

IN  Springtime,  when  the  bashful  boy 
Goes  billing  with  his  sweetheart  coy, 

When  birds  unto  their  mates  do  call, 
I  think  my  heart  should  then  have  joy — 

For  God  ordains  the  Seasons  all. 

When  Summer  wields  her  ample  sway, 
And  June  fulfils  the  pledge  of  May, 

When  cuckoos  from  the  far  woods  call, 
I  think  my  heart  should  then  be  gay — 

For  God  ordains  the  Seasons  all. 

When  Autumn  breathes  her  sad  good-bye, 
And  song-birds  over-seas  do  fly, 

When  all  the  leaves  turn  sere  and  fall, 
I  think  my  heart  should  still  beat  high — 

For  God  ordains  the  Seasons  all. 

In  Winter,  when  the  snows  drift  deep, 
When  heaven  is  hid  and  earth  asleep, 

When  birds  and  beasts  are  silent  all, 
It  is  not  right  that  I  should  weep — 

For  God  ordains  the  Seasons  all. 


HEROIC  DEATH  21 


HEROIC  DEATH 

WHEREVER  tales  are  told 
Of  heroes,  humble  and  bold, 
Venturing,  not  for  gold, 

Hard  ways  to  wend  : 
There  shall  these  names  be  known, 
Whose  graves  are  furthest  thrown 
To  the  bleak  South,  alone, 

At  the  world's  end. 

As  they  had  faced  the  Pole, 
Bravely,  with  constant  soul, 
Faced  they  that  further  goal, 

Yielding  their  breath. 
When  all  their  strength  was  spent 
Made  they,  and  well  content, 
That  last  experiment 

Whose  name  is  Death. 

What  have  they  shown  for  us, 
These  that  are  gone  from  us  ? 
This  they  have  done  for  us 

How  shall  we  call  ? 
Much — for  we  all  must  die  : 
One  venture  all  must  try.  .  .  . 
Truly  the  Pole  is  nigh 

Unto  us  all ! 


22  PILGRIMAGE 


TO  ONE  OF  THE  FALLEN 

'Mm  whatsoever  shot  or  shell 

You  met  your  death,  one  thing  is  well- 

'Twas  a  gallant  man  that  fell. 

Much  is  doubtful.  This  is  sure : 
What  is  good,  and  what  is  pure, 
Cannot  die  but  shall  endure. 

God  is  worshipped  everywhere 
By  the  burdens  that  men  bear 
Cheerfully,  without  despair. 

Few  will  guess.     But  God  will  know. 
There  can  be  nor  weal  nor  woe 
But  His  love  hath  willed  it  so. 

Therefore  unto  Him  That  gave 
Yield  we  up  our  darling  brave — 
Certain  that  His  love  will  save. 


THE  NARCISSUS  23 


THE  NARCISSUS 

MINE  's  a  sweet  and  thoughtful  fragrance 
From  the  past  'twill  strangely  bring 

Thoughts  that  came  upon  you  early 
Some  blue  morning  in  the  Spring — 

When  the  window  was  wide  open, 
And  a  single  bird  did  sing. 

Try  me :  stoop,  and  deep  within  you 
Draw  my  sweetness  long  and  slow  : 

You  will  feel  hang  just  beyond  you 
Something  that  you  seem  to  know — 

Something  sweet  and  half-remembered, 
Something  pure  and  long-ago. 


24  PILGRIMAGE 


A  BALLAD  OF  THE  NATIVITY 

THE  stars  shine  down  on  Bethlehem, 
A  bitter  wind  doth  blow  ; 
And  the  ways  that  lead  t'ward  Bethlehem 
Are  hushed  with  wreaths  of  snow. 

Now  Bethlehem  is  a  little  town. 
And  full  of  folk  to-night ; 
From  the  only  inn  at  Bethlehem 
Comes  laughter  and  much  light. 

'  See,  Mary  my  wife  is  weary  and  cold — 
Her  child  shall  soon  be  born  : 
Now  have  you  a  room,  for  the  love  of  God, 
Where  she  may  rest  till  morn  ? ' 

The  servant  is  gone  to  his  master :  '  O  sir, 
There  are  travellers  at  the  door ! ' 
'  And  are  they  rich  ? '  cries  the  inn-keeper. 
'  Nay,  master,  but  very  poor. 

'  But  the  woman  is  weary  and  very  cold, 
And  they  have  come  from  afar. 
She  bears  a  babe  beneath  her  breast, 
And  her  face  is  like  a  star.' 


A  BALLAD  OF  THE  NATIVITY          25 

But  the  inn-keeper  is  chafed  to-night 
(His  guests  have  each  their  will)  : 
'  If  they  have  travelled  so  far/  cries  he, 
'  Then  they  can  travel  still. 

'  And  how  do  they  think  that  I  should  make 

A  stir  for  such  as  them  ! 

By  the  Lord,  you  might  think  that  a  king  and  his 

wife 
Were  come  to  Bethlehem  ! ' 

So  Mary  and  Joseph  are  turned  away 
Outside  where  the  cold  winds  blow  ; 
They  know  not  which  of  the  ways  to  take 
Of  the  ways  all  hushed  with  snow. 

But  Joseph,  he  has  searched  around, 
And  he  has  seen  a  shed  : 
'  Here,  Mary,  is  straw  for  you  to  lie  on, 
And  a  manger  for  Jesus'  bed.' 

A  manger  shall  be  His  cradle  soft, 

As  a  tree  shall  be  His  death  : 

And  the  ox  and  the  ass  shall  be  His  hosts 

And  warm  Him  with  their  breath. 

So  Mary  lay  down  upon  the  straw 

In  the  dim  light  of  the  stars, 

And  the  Babe  came  forth  Whose  feet  and  hands 

Shall  bear  redemption's  scars. 


26  PILGRIMAGE 

And  the  Babe  came  forth  Whose  life  and  death 

Shall  be  our  best  true-gain  : 

And  as  a  white  flower  lets  fall  its  dew, 

E'en  so  was  Mary's  pain. 

The  ox  and  the  ass  bent  low  their  head, 
Scarce  breathed  and  softly  trod ; 
And  they  were  the  only  things  that  saw — 
These  humble  beasts  of  God — 

Yes,  they  were  the  only  things  that  saw 

Their  Lord  in  the  manger  laid  ; 

And  they  looked  with  great  moist  wondering  eyes 

At  the  mother  that  was  a  maid. 

And  thus  the  little  Babe  was  born, 
That  men  so  soon  denied  : 
But  Mary  held  Him  against  her  breast, 
And  Joseph  stood  by  His  side. 

'  And  who  are  ye  that  throng  without  ? 
What  light  shines  on  the  floor  ? ' 
'  'Tis  the  light  of  the  wondrous  star  that  led 
Our  footsteps  to  this  door. 

'  And  we  are  shepherds  that  on  the  hills 
Were  tending  of  our  sheep, 
When  an  angel  came  from  a  cleft  in  the  sky 
And  astounded  us  from  sleep. 


A  BALLAD  OF  THE  NATIVITY         27 

f  And  we  are  come  to  see  the  Lord — 

Oh,  tell  us  where  He  is  laid  ! ' 

But  they  fell  on  their  knees,  for  they  saw  the  Child, 

And  His  mother  that  was  a  maid. 

'  And  who  are  ye  that  hastening  come 
In  robes  of  splendid  dye  ? ' 
'  Oh,  we  are  kings  that  saw  a  star 
Before  us  in  the  sky. 

'  And  we  are  come  to  greet  the  Lord 

With  gold  and  spices  rare.' 

And  the  kings  knelt  down  on  the  naked  earth, 

For  they  saw  the  Baby  there. 

Lo,  kings  (to  whom  men  kneel)  bow  down, 
All  gorgeously  arrayed ; 
For  their  eyes  have  seen  the  King  of  kings, 
And  His  mother  that  was  a  maid. 

And  thus  the  little  Babe  was  hailed, 
That  men  so  soon  denied  : 
But  Mary  held  Him  against  her  breast, 
And  Joseph  stood  by  His  side. 

And  the  shepherds,  gazing  upon  His  face, 
Scarce  breathed  and  softly  trod ; 
And  the  mighty  kings  knelt  side  by  side 
With  the  humble  beasts  of  God. 


28  PILGRIMAGE 


A   CASUAL   ELEGY 

WE  saw  her  playing  in  the  road  one  day — 
A  dainty  April-thing,  as  quick  and  merry, 

With  flaxen  hair  on  which  the  sun  was  gay — 
And  I  said  f sweet'  and  some  one  else  said  'very.' 

A  week  strolled  by :  each  careless  careful  day 
An  uneventful  round  of  usual  things. 

It  seemed  no  path  for  grief — this  pleasant  way 
Of  work,  and  sleep,  and  children's  utterings. 

It  seemed  no  place  for  tears — this  tranquil  tide 
Of  life's  young  noon  and  life's  first  dawning  gleam ; 

O  Death,  good  angel  Death,  the  world  is  wide, 
Could  you  not  leave  intact  one  pretty  dream  ? 

And  then  we  heard  the  little  girl  was  dead — 

And  had  not  stayed,  for  all  her  voice  was  merry ; 

A  few  keen  joys,  brief  woes,  and  she  had  fled  : 
And  I  said  'sad'  and  some  one  else  said  'very.' 


TO  A  DEAD  FACE  29 


TO   A   DEAD   FACE 

WHEN  the  blood  that  fires 

Dies  down  and  is  at  peace, 

When  the  pain  that  tires 

And  the  toil  and  the  troubles  cease, 

Then,  'tis  then,  we  see 

How  God  has  worked  within — 

The  lovely  victory 

Of  life  o'er  death  and  sin. 

When  the  hands  composed 
Are  folded  on  the  breast, 
When  the  eyes  are  closed, 
And  the  limbs  are  at  rest ; 
Then,  'tis  then,  we  know 
How  truly  Love  is  lord, 
How  God  doth  end  our  woe 
According  to  His  word. 

When  the  strife  is  over, 

See,  it  leaves  no  trace  ! 

1  lift  the  veils  that  cover 

His  triumphant  face — 

Most  lovely,  oh,  most  beautiful, 

These  tears  are  not  for  you  ; 

There  is  nothing  here  to  weep  for, 

Nothing  here  to  rue. 


30  PILGRIMAGE 


TO  THE   HOUSE   WHERE   MY 
FATHER   DIED 

LITTLE  sad  house,  when  we  go 

Hence — as  now  (thank  God)  we  do- 

They  that  come  here  will  not  know 
All  that  we  shall  leave  in  you  : 

Well  for  them  that  it  is  so.  ... 

'Twas  our  heart  that  made  of  you, 
Little  house,  a  place  of  gloom — 

'Twas  our  heart,  because  we  knew 
What  that  silent  upstairs  room 

Saw  our  dear  one  sorrow  through.  .  . 

'Twas  our  heart ;  and  since  I  know 

Sadness  is  of  hearts  alone 
All  your  gloom  with  us  will  go — 

You  are  only  wood  and  stone, 
Having  neither  weal  nor  woe.  .  .  . 

Man  imagines  that  the  earth 

Knows  his  sorrow,  shares  his  pain ; 

Man  imagines  that  his  mirth 
And  his  sadness  must  remain  ; 

Man  imagines  from  his  birth.  .  .  . 


A  GETHSEMANE  31 


A   GETHSEMANE 

HERE  in  this  garden  where  I  saw  you  sitting 
Haggard  and  wan  beneath  those  wintry  skies — 
Here  in  this  place  where  your  premonished  eyes 
Looked  up  at  me,  who  came  to  you,  unwitting 

That  mortal  combat,  fierce  and  unremitting, 
Wherein  your  anguished  soul  did  agonise — 
Here  in  this  garden  which  has  heard  your  sighs 
I  stand  once  more — that  anguish  not  forgetting. 

I  was  so  hard — so  hard,  and  so  unheeding — 

So  plunged  in  self:  too  oft  from  your  mute  pleading 

I  turned  impatient,  and  from  all  your  pain. 

My  God,  my  God,  one  thing  this  place  shall  teach  me, 
And  I'll  take  care — lest  other  eyes  beseech  me, 
As  these  do  now,  when  all  my  love  is  vain. 


32  PILGRIMAGE 


THE   SANDHILLS 

EVENING — and  the  rosy  water 
Prone  beyond  the  hills  of  sand  ; 

Nothing  stirring,  save  the  cuckoo, 
Save  the  lark,  in  all  the  land. 

Waves  of  sand  up-surging  round  me, 
Smooth  and  swept  and  hinting  gold ; 

Far  as  furthest  eye  can  follow 
Sandhills  endlessly  unfold. 

Overhead  the  sky  of  summer 

Doming  looms,  a  wondrous  blue  ; 

And  a  sense  of  spacious  freedom 
Clothes  the  sameness  of  the  view. 

Solitude,  the  perfect  sameness, 

Silence,  and  the  distant  sea, 
Soothe  me  as  the  sap  of  poppy 

Soothes  the  sick  man's  misery. 

Seek  the  sandhills  !     When  you  're  weary, 
When  the  stress  that  follows  strain, 

When  the  simple  fret  of  being 
Galls  you  like  an  iron  chain, 


THE  SANDHILLS  33 

Seek  the  sandhills  !     They  are  easeful, 

They  at  least  will  never  fret ; 
They  will  free  you  of  foreboding, 

They  will  rid  you  of  regret. 

Lose  yourself — each  grain  shall  guide  you 

To  Nirvanah  ;  as  you  stray 
All  the  empty  ache  of  being 

Shall  be  lulled,  and  lured  away. 

Seek  the  sandhills  when  you  're  fruitless, 
When  you  're  fretful — they  are  free : 

When  you  cannot  come  to  heaven, 
Seek  the  sandhills — and  not  be. 


34  PILGRIMAGE 


EDEN 

I  SAT  one  evening  in  a  garden's  bliss, 
'Mid  stately  trees  embosomed,  and  with  flowers 
Dight  gaily  round,  and  felt  the  sun's  warm  kiss 
Only  the  lovelier  for  late  summer- showers. 

I  did  not  read,  nor  think ;  but  simply  lay 
As  in  a  conscious  sleep,  where  nought  could  tease 
My  soul's  content ;  and  watched  the  languid  sway 
Of  affluent  branches  petted  by  the  breeze. 

And,  as  I  sat,  all  memory  of  deceit 
And  guile  dropped  from  me  in  a  glad  release, 
Till  earth  seemed  all  one  garden,  by  God's  feet 
Trodden  and  blessed,  of  innocence  and  peace. 

'Twas  as  though  Eden,  whence  our  parents  fell, 
Swung  in  my  soul  her  forfeit  thurible. 


THE  FALL  O'  THE  YEAR  35 


THE   FALL   O1   THE   YEAR 

PAST  yon  dark  fringe  of  fir-trees  old, 
See,  how  the  west  is  fire  of  gold  ! 
See,  how  the  mantled  woods  conspire 
Round  the  smooth  mirror  of  that  fire  ! 

Hark,  how  the  air — as  blood  is,  warm  — 
Throbs  with  the  moody  pulse  of  storm  ; 
How  on  the  boughs  the  birds  are  dumb, 
Sensing  the  end  !  The  end  is  come  ! 

Bid  ye  good-bye,  poor  foolish  fly  ; 
Death  is  abroad — and  you  must  die  ! 
Taste  ye  the  air,  its  tainted  breath  ? — 
Summer  is  wooed  and  won  by  Death  ! 

Show  me  the  heart  hath  known  no  smart, 
Show  me  true  lovers  ne'er  did  part ! 
Cuckold  the  year :  his  pride  is  gone  ! 
Toss  him  a  sigh,  and  so  pass  on ! 


36  PILGRIMAGE 


THEIR   HERITAGE 

THEY  are  playing  at  cricket,  the  boys  on  the  sward, 

Eager  and  swift ; 
They  are  happy,  the  boys  on  the  sward  .  .  . 

But  the  world  is  adrift. 

Adrift  .   .  .  like  a  wreck,  all  tattered  and  teased 

By  the  winds  of  the  sea  ; 
By  envy  and  malice  and  hate 

And  misery. 

Not  theirs  as  yet,  as  they  play  on  the  sward 
.  In  their  haven  of  youth, 
Not  theirs  as  yet,  as  they  play  on  the  sward, 
The  horror  of  truth. 

They  will  inherit,  the  boys  at  play  on  the  sward, 

What  we  by  our  sweat 
Have  wrung  from  the  rock  that  is  life — 

And  they  will  forget. 

They  will  forget — for  they  played  on  the  sward 

When  we  had  our  pain  ; 

And  the  things  that  we  thought  we  had  crushed  will 
rise  up 

To  be  fought  with  again. 


THEIR  HERITAGE  37 

For  we  cannot  pass  on,  O  boys  at  play  on  the  sward, 

Our  learnings  to  you ; 
And  the  snares  that  entangled  our  feet 

Will  entangle  yours  too. 

Play  on  nevertheless,  O  boys  at  play  on  the  sward ; 

You  will  come  in  your  pride 
To  inherit  the  dust  that  we  raised, 

And  the  lies  that  we  lied. 


38  PILGRIMAGE 


SPRING,   1915 

THE  Spring  is  come  ! — but  oh,  not  now 
Can  freshening  leaf,  can  blossoming  bough, 
Bid  hearts  leap  up  :  a  present  fear 
Unto  each  has  crept  too  near. 

The  Spring  is  come  ! — but  oh,  the  earth 
Has  little  heart  in  her  for  mirth  : 
Beneath  her  breast  too  thick  they  lie — 
The  thousands  that  untimely  die. 

The  Spring  is  come  ! — but  where  are  they 
Were  wont  to  shout,  were  used  to  play, 
On  her  green  lap  ? — ah,  where  indeed  ? — 
On  alien  soil  too  many  bleed. 

The  Spring  is  come  ! — without  a  scar 
The  sea  discloses  far  and  far 
Her  azure  distances,  and  sighs  : 
She  too  is  swept  of  wistful  eyes. 

And  who  go  down  to  her  in  ships 
Are  kissed  good-bye  of  bloodless  lips — 
Of  bloodless  lips  upon  the  shore : 
And  some  that  go  will  come  no  more. 


39 


LA  MAISON  DU  BERGER 

THE  shepherd's  tiny  hut  is  built  of  wood, 
It  runs  on  wheels ;  and  as  the  days  draw  on 
He  dwells  far  off,  what  time  the  burdened  ewes 
With  bleatings  low  are  like  to  drop  their  lambs. 

Terrific  round  him  range  the  winds  of  March, 
He  dwells  sequestered  'mid  the  pastures  drear : 
Close  mantled  in  his  cloak,  beside  his  stove, 
He  smokes  his  pipe  and  thinks  his  thoughts  alone. 

I  '11  be  a  shepherd  too,  and  build  a  hut 
That  runs  on  wheels ;  and  from  the  world  drawn  far 
I  too  will  tend  my  sheep — which  are  my  thoughts — 
When  they  be  pregnant  with  sweet  poesy. 

I  shall  not  feel  the  cold,  close  wrapped  around 
With  my  warm  cloak  of  dreams  and  memories. 


40  PILGRIMAGE 


THE  ANNUNCIATION 

NIGHT'S  myriad  music  around  her  clings 

Of  minor  reed  and  muted  strings ; 

There  is  murmur  of  water  flowing  nigh, 

And  the  chime  of  the  stars  in  a  marvellous  sky. 

Subtly,  strangely,  the  night  grows  tense  : 
All  heaven  and  earth  seem  one  same  sense. 
The  water,  the  air,  the  stars,  the  sky, 
Seem  mingled  and  merged  and  drawing  nigh. 

All  touch  and  smell,  all  sound  and  sight, 
The  feel  of  dew  and  the  scent  of  night, 
Seem,  met  in  one,  a  heaven  to  be 
Of  sweetness,  warmth,  and  melody. 

All  love  and  light,  all  loveliness, 

All  dreams  that  quicken  and  prayers  that  bless, 

Are  one  in  a  voice  in  that  mystic  place, 

And  speak, — '  Hail,  Mary — full  of  grace  ! ' 


GENEROUS  YOUTH  41 


GENEROUS  YOUTH 

WHO  hath  not  known,  that  dreams  by  day 
In  Spring  when  Youth  is  drawn  to  pray, 
Some  spirit-space  when  pain  seemed  fair, 
And  sacrifice  abstract  as  air  ? 

Who  hath  not  prayed,  that  hath  been  young 
And  generous  and  highly  strung, 
That  God  might  ask  our  soul  to  make 
Some  high  renouncement  for  His  sake  ? 

And  who  looks  back  but  will  confess 
That  God  (Who  loves  our  childishness) 
Yet  was  more  kind  when  He  denied 
That  thing  for  which  our  spirit  cried  ? 

For  heavenly  favours  bring  with  them, 
After  that  brief  sweet  Bethlehem, 
A  need  of  faith  that  still  shall  be 
When  hope  hangs  dead  on  Calvary. 

We  had  not  thought,  we  had  not  known — 
For  children  dream  the  world  their  own ; 
And,  playing,  dwell  in  worlds  of  play 
Where  things  go  all  the  fairy-way. 


42  PILGRIMAGE 

'Tis  Mary's  way  is  best  of  all — 
Who  nor  had  dreamed  the  mystic  call, 
•        Nor  knew  the  work  in  her  begun — 
Who  simply  said  '  Thy  Will  be  done.' 

For  whatso  comes  to  them  that  pray, 
And,  loving  God,  desire  His  way, 
Can  hardly  be  but  what  we  would — 
For  God  is  over  all,  and  good. 

Forgive  us,  Lord,  our  silly  dreams — 
Born  yet  of  love  of  Thy  bright  gleams ; 
And  grant  us  now  our  humbler  prayer  : 
Thy  Will  to  love,  Thy  Cross  to  bear. 


HOME  43 


HOME 

FAR  in  the  flowering  country-side, 

Whence  the  horizoned  hills  show  blue, 

'Mid  pleasant  fields  and  woods  abide 
My  mother  and  my  sisters  two. 

The  house  abuts  on  pastured  calm, 

Which  round  about,  like  some  cool  spell, 

The  river  slips  a  shining  arm, 

As  though  to  guard  and  keep  it  well. 

Pink  roses  climb  the  old  brick  walls ; 

By  jasmine  clumps  sweet  scent  is  given  : 
Across  the  fields  the  cuckoo  calls, 

The  lark  mounts  singing  unto  heaven. 

The  bleating  flocks,  the  lowing  herds 
Whose  evening  store  seek^  now  release, 

And  the  glad  noise  of  nesting  birds, 

Are  all  the  sounds  that  break  our  peace. 

O  lovely  Peace,  true  gift  of  joy, 

Build  here,  I  beg,  a  lasting  throne ; 

Nor  let  the  felon-years  decoy 

Too  soon  what  is  so  much  mine  own. 


44  PILGRIMAGE 

Sequestered  from  the  world's  affairs, 

To  have  no  thoughts  but  what  are  pure, 

And  these  to  set  to  haunting  airs 
And  magic  words  that  shall  endure, 

This  much  I  ask — and  then  the  Spring, 
Here  in  the  heart  of  this  fair  shire  : 

And  I  will  ask  no  further  thing 
Of  all  the  things  that  men  desire. 


THE  LITTLE  WAY  45 


THE  LITTLE  WAY 

WHEN  unto  Christ  (Whose  blood  was  shed) 

A  little  child  was  given, 
Except  ye  become  as  this,  He  said, 

Ye  shall  not  enter  heaven. 
The  people,  this  hearing, 
Are  stricken  with  fearing — 
'  What  hope  then  have  we  ? 
And  how  shall  this  be  ? 

'  How  shall  our  cares,  our  sharper  tears, 

With  this  be  reconciled  ? 
And  how  an  old  man,  bent  with  years, 

Become  a  little  child  ? 
Whose  chin  hath  a  beard, 
How  shall  he  be  spared  ? 
How  enter  the  womb 
That  is  nearer  the  tomb  ? ' 

But  Christ  hath  shown  onv  soul  the  way — 

Whose  heart  hath  hid  no  guile, 
Whose  hands  are  not  too  hard  to  pray, 

Whose  eyes  too  stern  to  smile ; 
Whose  joy  is  in  living, 

Whose  spirit  forgiving ; 
Whose  manners  are  mild — 

That  soul  is  a  child. 


46  PILGRIMAGE 


THAT  NOT  IMPOSSIBLE  SHE 

I  'D  wish  my  future  wife  to  be 
The  better  complement  of  me  ; 
And,  while  I  wish  her  good  and  kind, 
I  wish  that  she  may  have  a  mind 
That 's  all  her  own,  and  will  not  sway 
To  every  foolish  thing  I  say. 
Grey  eyes,  long-lashed — for  these  I  love 
All  other  sort  of  eyes  above. 

I  wish  her  slender  like  a  fawn, 
With  hair  of  dusk  and  eyes  of  dawn. 
I  wish  her  long  white  hands  ;  her  eyes 
Shall  see  the  distance  and  surmise 
Bright  things  beyond  it ;  and  her  voice 
I  wish  like  hidden  streams — for  choice 
She  'd  not  love  speaking  :  as  I  live 
I  would  not  have  her  talkative. 

I  wish  her  sensitive,  and  clever 
To  catch  a  winged  idea ;  but  never 
Led  on  by  pride ;  and  not  capricious, 
Nor  in  her  merriment  malicious  : 


THAT  NOT  IMPOSSIBLE  SHE  47 

But  to  the  depths  of  her  dear  mind 
Gentle  and  simple,  good  and  kind — 
And  pious  too,  for  never  maid 
Should  be  a  bride  till  she  has  prayed. 

I  wish  her  loving  children,  and 
Their  little  hearts  to  understand 
Quick ;  and  I  'd  have  her  joy  to  be 
In  tending  them  and  loving  me  .  .   . 
For  women,  as  all  wise  folk  know, 
Are  happiest  and  most  blessed  so. 
But  more  than  all  I  wish  her  wise 
With  God's  high  wisdom  in  her  eyes. 

And  if  together  we  grow  old 

I  wish  our  love  may  ne'er  get  cold ; 

And  that  I  die  first,  and  that  she 

May  kiss  the  cold  austerity 

Of  my  dead  face,  and  tearful  tell 

Our  children  how  I  acted  well 

By  her,  and  like  a  husband  true — 

As  I  will  surely  strive  to  do. 


48  PILGRIMAGE 


SHELLEY 

THROUGH  the  brief  twilight,  where  that  ghostly  sea 

Haunts  its  pale  beaches  with  unchanging  tide, 
Whence  the  white  mists  yearned  upward  dreamily, 

I  thought  of  Shelley  and  of  how  he  died. 
Then  from  the  waters  hissing  at  my  feet 

A  form  seemed  risen,  and  a  voice  was  heard — 
A  shape  not  human,  and  a  sound  not  sweet, 

But  harsh,  discordant,  like  some  strangling  bird. 
It  moved  towards  me,  from  its  sodden  hair 

Tossing  the  moisture ;  but  a  restless  breeze 
Whirled  it  away,  and  as  into  the  air 

It  vanished  thinly  :  through  the  fringe  of  trees 
The  gust  swept  triumphing  and  lo  was  gone ; 
The  backwash  simmered,  and  a  lone  star  shone. 


EVENING  IN  ITALY  49 


EVENING  IN  ITALY 

WHEN  the  lent  of  eve  has  sobered 

The  carnival  of  day, 

On  the  road  that  rounds  the  headland 

To  the  eastward  of  the  bay, 

'Neath  the  vesper-bell's  far  chiming 

I  see  the  town  lie  still, 

Like  a  wraith  of  white  mist  wreathed 

Around  the  hill. 

The  hills  close  in  around  me, 
The  sea  spreads  vast  before, 
And  there  stirs  no  sound  save  only 
The  wan  waves  on  the  shore, 
And  a  shiver  of  air  that  rises 
Like  a  spirit  from  off  the  seas 
And  rustles  the  ashen  leafage 
Of  the  olive-trees. 

If  man  might  appoint  his  dying, 
I  have  thought  that  mine  should  be 
Far  out  where  the  last  lone  headland 
Goes  downward  to  the  sea ; 
D 


50  PILGRIMAGE 

For  there  at  the  hour  of  evening, 
With  no  roof  but  the  sky, 
One  frets  for  the  wider  freedom 
Of  them  that  die. 

For  the  veils  wax  thin  at  evening 

That  hide  from  human  eyes 

That  beauty  which  all  earth-beauties 

But  shadow  and  symbolise; 

And  we  know  that  to  die  is  simply 

To  see  things  plain  by  light, 

As  a  man  looks  forth  in  the  morning 

That  came  by  night. 

At  the  ghostly  hour  of  evening 

Christ  walks  upon  the  sea, 

And  the  veils  wax  thin  that  sunder 

Time  from  eternity : 

And  the  prayer-bell  chimes  out  softly, 

And  the  town  floats  strange  and  still, 

Like  a  wraith  of  white  mist  wreathed 

Around  the  hill. 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  MOUNTAINS     51 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  MOUNTAINS 

THE  hills  rise  sheer  above  the  town, 

Whence  only  one  small  path  comes  down — 

A  cobbled  track  for  mules  to  tread 

Safely  when  they  are  burdened  : 

But  this  one  path  leads  very  far 

Beyond,  where  the  great  white  mountains  are. 

'Tis  scarce  a  path  that  one  would  choose — 

Steep  to  climb,  not  hard  to  lose  : 

But  upward  questing  ever  thrills ; 

And  whosoe'er  the  toil  fulfils 

Shall  reach  yon  gap  between  the  hills  ; 

And  it  be  given  him  thence  to  see 

A  vision  of  God's  great  majesty— 

So  that  he  '11  look  through  tears,  and  pray, 

And  call  it  worth  the  toil  of  the  way. 

I  asked  a  man  who  'd  been  one  day 
What  he  'd  beheld  :  he  answered  '  Thence 
I  've  seen  the  Alps'  magnificence  ! 
And  looked  into  the  vale  below, 
Whence  comes  up  music  soft  and  slow — 
Sweeter  than  ever  viol  or  flute — 
Whose  air  is  silence  absolute.' 


52  PILGRIMAGE 

He  warned  me  that  the  way  was  steep, 
Long  and  rough  and  hard  to  keep. 
I  said  :   I  mean  to  go  that  way. 

I  waited,  till  there  came  a  day — 
That  day,  all  maize  and  mauve  and  blue ; 
Then,  first,  I  took  the  road  unto 
The  white  Parrochia,  where  I  knelt 
And  said  to  God  how  good  it  felt, 
His  sunshine  at  the  noon  o'  the  day  : 
Then  I  rose  up  and  went  my  way. 

Right  of  the  church  the  narrow  path 
Runs  'twixt  high  walls  of  stuccoed  lath  ; 
Past  the  girls'  school  and  the  boys', 
Uproarious  with  their  noonday  noise  ; 
Then,  by  contrast,  it  doth  come 
Unto  the  graveyard,  hushed  and  dumb, 
Where  in  tall  cypress'  solemn  shade 
Perhaps  some  mourner  knelt  and  prayed 
O'er  new-turned  earth.  .  .  . 

Now,  left  behind 

Those  stuccoed  walls,  the  path  doth  wind 
Up  a  broad  hill,  whence  one  may  see 
The  town's  whole  languorous  symmetry 
Curling  around  the  blissful  bay  ; 
Whence  one  may  hear  from  far  away 


Man's  business  and  the  murmurous  sound 
Of  waves  that  rise  and  fall  around 
The  sea's  fresh  margin. 

Now  one  roves, 

Through  olive  and  mimosa  groves, 
Downward  through  a  breathless  glen, 
Over  a  bridge,  and  up  again. 
And  now  the  eye  no  object  sees 
But  just  the  trees  and  still  the  trees, 
Whiles  ruffling  in  the  least  soft  breeze 
Their  spiced  leafage  :  to  look  back 
Is  just  to  see  the  cobbled  track 
Following  after ;  look  before 
You  '11  see  the  track  and  nothing  more. 
A  small  stream  sings  a  roundelay 
Down  on  its  gravelly  waterway ; 
Here,  as  you  rest  by  some  sweet  pool, 
P'raps  children  will  pass  you  going  to  school 
Back  in  the  town  whence  you  are  come ; 
And  some  will  run  shyly  past,  but  some 
Smile  up  at  you  and  bid  '  God-speed  '- 
Which  you  erelong  will  sorely  need, 
For  soon  the  way  grows  very  steep. 

But,  if  your  upward  way  you  keep, 
Erelong  you  '11  leave  the  groves  behind, 
And  mount  some  rude  low  steps,  and  find, 
Glittering  in  the  upland  air 
Like  some  white  gem,  what  you  '11  declare 


54  PILGRIMAGE 

Surely  the  tiniest  town  e'er  packed 

Round  a  slim  campanile  ! — tracked 

But  by  this  path  ;  of  faery  towns 

Last  dreamed — its  streets  all  ups  and  downs  ; 

With  many  a  narrow  and  winding  way, 

Where  bands  of  swart  bambini  play, 

And  hens  strut  vaguely  to  and  fro. 

Take  the  unlikeliest  way,  and  go 
Into  the  market-place,  where  people 
Lounge  in  the  shadow  of  the  steeple, 
With  hat-brims  down  before  their  eyes, 
And  straws  that  nothing  shall  surprise 
Out  of  their  mouth  ;  and  here  one  sees 
The  very  mules  with  curled-up  knees 
Asleep ;  and  all  that  meets  the  eye 
Is  placid  as  the  unbroken  sky 
'Neath   whose   blue   arch   the   earth   is 

spread. 

You  'd  almost  think  the  men  were  dead, 
But  perhaps  some  one  will  raise  his  head 
To  ask  his  neighbour  why  in  thunder 
A  man  makes  such  an  obvious  blunder 
As  to  go  climbing  on  a  day 
God  meant  for  gentler  kinds  of  play  ! 
To  lie  i'  the  sun  is  pleasanter  far 
(On  such  a  day)  than  questings  are, 
'Tis  true  :  yet  still  that  mysterious  gap 
Rebukes  the  seductions  of  a  nap, 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  MOUNTAINS     55 

Luring  one  upward  still — for  thence 
One  sees  the  Alps'  magnificence  ; 
And  looks  into  the  vale  below, 
Whence  comes  up  music  soft  and  slow — 
Sweeter  than  ever  viol  or  flute — 
Whose  air  is  silence  absolute. 


So  upward  still  the  heart  is  tossed ; 
And  soon  the  faery  town  is  lost. 

I  needed  hands  as  well  as  feet 
Hereafter  !     And,  O  Lord,  the  heat ! 
The  ground  rose  up  by  slow  degrees 
In  terraces  and  terraces 
Banked  in  with  stones  ;  and  each  of  these 
Must  needs  be  climbed  :  the  olive-trees 
Grew  thick  yet  gave  but  little  ease. 

Wide,  wide  beneath  the  sea  was  spread, 

Blue  as  the  blue  sky  o'er  my  head ; 

The  earth  swept  downward  from  my  feet 

(Mimosa  dazzling  in  the  heat)  ; 

And,  on  the  hill's  precarious  ledge, 

That  town  seemed  trembling — like  a  sledge 

The  instant  e'er  in  full  career 

It  charges  downward  !     Far  and  near 

The  sun  pricked  every  shrub  out  clear. 


56  PILGRIMAGE 

Yet,  looking  up,  I  still  could  see 

The  gap's  mysterious  lure  of  me — 

Nor  did  it  seem  so  very  far.  .  .  . 

I  said :  All  upward  ways  that  are 

Must  get  there  somehow ;  though  I  stray, 

I  'm  sure  to  get  there  some  fine  day — 

This  seems  a  straight,  if  roughish,  way. 

Grimly  I  turned,  and  climbed  up  higher. 

And  now  the  gap  of  my  desire 

Was  close  upon  me — hewn  from  rocks 

Rugged  and  huge,  with  smaller  blocks 

Bedded  around,  and  here  and  there 

A  shrub ;  but  chiefly  it  is  bare. 

And  through  the  gap  one  smells  the  sky.  . 

Up  here  the  snow  seemed  very  nigh  ; 

One  heard  it  in  the  nimble  air 

Like  chiming  sleigh-bells  ;  sensed  its  rare 

Ethereal  fineness  everywhere. 

And  now,  because  the  vision  was  near, 

I  felt  a  sudden  pang  of  fear ; 

And  halted,  turning  towards  the  sea, 

Which  still  is  heard,  but  hushedly 

Far  off.  .  .  . 

I  took  the  hill's  last  rise 
Running,  my  soul  one  fierce  surmise 
Pressing  in  pain  against  my  eyes. 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  MOUNTAINS     57 

So  running,  came  I  to  the  goal 

Breathless  !     And  from  mine  enraptured  soul 

Was  wrung  a  sharp  glad  cry  !     For  thence 

I  saw  rise  up,  serene,  immense, 

Clothed  with  God's  vital  immanence, 

The  stainless  white  magnificence 

Of  mountains  throned  against  the  sky  ! 

I  think  I  prayed  that  I  might  die, 

Like  Simeon  when  he  saw  all  bliss 

Shaped  like  a  child.     I  knew  that^this 

Was  that  strange  thing  that  comes  sometimes 

To  men  like  me  who  deal  in  rhymes  ; 

And  always  suddenly,  and  never 

When  they  feel  confident  and  clever ; 

But  more  when  they've  been  sad  and  ill, 

And  feeling  life  a  lone  uphill 

And  joyless  journey  :  then  'twill  come, 

This  subtil,  gentle,  sweet  wisdom. 

'Twill  lift  the  weariness  that  weighs 

Grievous  on  their  mortal  days  ; 

'Twill  wake  them,  as  at  dawn,  to  see 

God  walking  by  them  fatherly — 

Not  in  the  whirlwind,  but  in  Him 

To  Whom,  as  to  us,  the  world  was  dim 

Once,  for  He  walked  in  human  guise 

The  stony  earth,  and  used  our  eyes. 

'Twill  make  them  hear  His  voice  that  tells 

How  heaven  is  nearer  than  all  the  hells 


58  PILGRIMAGE 

That  they  invent.     And  they  shall  bless 
Even  the  sting  of  their  distress 
Which  won  them  this  divine  caress — 
Whose  name,  I  think,  is  happiness. 

I  do  not  know  how  long  I  sat : 
He  knows  not  time  who  gazes  at 
The  eternal  snows.     The  sun  sank  down, 
Coping  with  gold  the  white-surpliced  town 
And,  hearing  the  vesper-chime,  I  thought 
How  the  pale  twilight  here  is  nought 
Round  the  sad  shores  of  this  tideless  sea ; 
And  how  the  night  that  frightens  me, 
Coming,  would  find  me  groping  still 
'Mid  the  grey  groves  of  the  ghostly  hill. 

But  never  shall  I  be  the  same 
As  before  I  climbed  and  came, 
For  mine  eyes  have  feasted  hence 
On  the  mountains'  white  magnificence ; 
And  looked  into  the  vale  below, 
Whence  comes  up  music  soft  and  slow — 
Sweeter  than  ever  viol  or  flute — 
Whose  air  is  silence  absolute. 


EVENSONG  59 


EVENSONG 

THE  church  is  cool :  in  Tyrian  dyes  thrice-dipt 
The  pointed  windows  glow,  and  glimmers  pale 
The  fair  white  vesture  of  the  choir,  on  whose 
Sky -piercing  voices  I  am  borne  aloft. 

Now  unto  whom  succeeds  the  minister, 
Bidding  us  raise  our  hearts,  and  unto  God 
Turn  with  our  sins,  in  Whose  relenting  love 
Peace  only  shall  be  found,  and  peace  forever. 

And  now  once  more  through  all  the  echoing  aisles 
The  glorious  organ  peals  its  golden  hymn ; 
And  those  boy  voices,  almost  fiercely  sweet, 
From  God's  high  secrets  rend  the  obscuring  veil. 


60  PILGRIMAGE 


DESIRE   OF  THE  SEA 

OH,  for  the  sea  once  more — 

The  clean  and  cumbered  shore  ! 

Oh,  for  the  sea,  that  somewhere  still 

The  dancing  air  doth  fill 

With  its  brave  bluster,  launching  free 

Round  some  old  rock's  uncouth  and  stubborn  shank 

Rank  on  rank 

Its  shouting  chivalry ! 

Oh,  to  behold  that  huge  and  heartening  face 

From  some  stark  cliff,  when  now  the  imperious  tide 

Of  high-piled  stones  makes  but  a  purpling  trace 

On  its  spread  waters ;  when  the  fresh  gusts  chide 

Through  the  tough  grasses,  and  the  white  gulls  sink 

With  chortling  cries  to  skim  the  vociferant  brink  ! 

Oh,  to  be  by  when  two  proud  waves  uprear 

Their  rival  crests,  and,  eyeing  each  his  foe, 

Swing  shouldering  inward,  truculent  and  sheer, 

O'er  the  less  surges'  hiss ;  and  oh, 

To  see  them  meet, 'spring  up,  explode  in  foam — 

Wrench  now  asunder,  and  sink  simmering  home  ! 

Oh,  too,  to  stroll,  when  now  the  surfs  recede, 

The  smooth  firm  sands,  of  saturate  weed 


DESIRE  OF  THE  SEA  61 

Quaffing  the  pungent  breath  ;  to  cool 

Tired  feet  in  some  pellucid  pool ; 

To  scale  the  boulders,  and  explore  the  caves — 

Late  caldrons  of  the  waves  ; 

To  flout  the  caller  flaws  and  flee 

Down  to  the  utmost  margin  of  tlve  sea  ! — 

The  sea,  magniloquent  and  loud, 

Insatiable  and  sad, 

Imperial  and  proud, 

The  sea,  forever  gladdening,  ever  glad  ; 

Joyous  to  ears,  to  nostrils  sweet ; 

Of  tired  feet 

Delicious  minister  ;  to  eyes 

Perpetual  new  supreme  surprise ! 

Out  on  the  clean  and  cumbered  shore, 

Oh,  for  the  sea  once  more  ! 


62  PILGRIMAGE 


WHITBY   PIER 

WHEN  from  some  hill  I  smell  the  sea 
A  ravished  sense  comes  over  me ; 
I  shut  my  eyes  and  presently 
Am  on  my  pier  at  Whitby. 

Oh,  Whitby-town  is  dear  and  fair ; 
Its  roofs  are  red,  its  site  is  rare : 
There's  such  a  salt  and  splendid  air 
Upon  my  pier  at  Whitby. 

But  ah,  the  days  seem  long  ago 
Since  last  I  felt  the  breezes  blow, 
And  watched  the  tides  that  ebb  and  flow 
Around  my  pier  at  Whitby. 

The  boys  came  up  to  sell  me  bait — 
A  slimy  stuff  I  simply  hate  ! 
I  think  it  is  a  happy  state 
To  be  a  boy  at  Whitby. 

The  town  glows  forth  a  rosy  red, 
The  sky  gets  deeper  overhead, 
The  boys  they  all  go  home  to  bed — 
Ah  me,  my  pier  at  Whitby  ! 


WHITBY  PIER 

And  now  the  dark  comes  slowly  down — 
Ah  me,  the  beauty  of  the  town  ! 
Ah  me,  the  myriad  stars  that  crown 
My  darling  pier  at  Whitby  ! 


64  PILGRIMAGE 


BENEDICT'S   MONKS 

HE  's  no  damn-fool  lives  Benedict's  rule 

(Benedict's  monks  are  holy  men) ; 

It  '11  stand  him  good  stead  when  he  comes  to  be  dead, 

And  the  domesday-book  is  publicly  read — 

To  have  lived  obedient,  chaste  and  poor ; 

To  have  welcomed  the  beggar-man  in  at  his  door ; 

To  have  sung  God's  praises  each  day  in  choir, 

Schooling  his  soul  to  know  one  desire ; 

To  have  loved  his  motto  and  lived  his  rule ; 

To  have  served  his  age  by  keeping  a  school, 

Where  boys  are  trained  up  in  the  knowledge  of  God 

To  hear  one  law  and  to  heed  one  rod ; 

To  have  kept  right  order,  and  loved  sobriety, 

Industry,  dignity,  all  propriety, 

Wisdom,  peace,  and  God's  society  ; 

To  have  decked  God's  altar  and  kept  it  fair, 

Saying  his  Mass  in  the  morning  air ; 

To  have  preached  good  counsel  and  writ  wise  words  ; 

To  have  risen  and  slept  with  the  wise  little  birds ; 

To  have  shriven  the  sinner,  and  soothed  the  dying, 

Warned  the  wicked,  consoled  the  sighing ; 

To  have  christened  the  babe  and  blessed  the  mother, 

Taught  little  children  to  love  one  another ; 


BENEDICT'S  MONKS  65 

To  have  made  an  example  of  all  his  life, 

By  which  who  engage  in  the  old  world's  strife 

May  know  that  a  man  who  keeps  a  good  rule 

Is  neither  a  prig  nor  a  saint  nor  a  fool, 

But  a  man  like  themselves  with  a  brain  and  a  heart, 

Who  was  made  like  themselves  and  given  no  start — 

May  see  that  God  when  He  dwells  in  a  man 

Makes  a  much  better  job  than  aught  else  can  ! 

Who  does  all  this  does  exceedingly  well : 

And,  since  heaven  's  a  pleasanter  place  than  hell, 

And  God  a  more  lovable  lord  than  the  devil. 

And  since  good  is  a  comelier  thing  than  evil, 

All  must  admit  who  learned  logic  at  school 

Benedict's  monk  is  no  damn-fool. 


66  PILGRIMAGE 


THE   BEST 

SOME  hail  the  best  as  this,  and  some  as  that : 

One  gives  himself,  and  one  (less  bold)  his  friend  : 
All  know ;  and,  knowing,  all  can  put  it  pat — 

For  of  man's  vanity  there  is  no  end. 
But  in  my  heart  (the  Best  being  near  to  seek) 

From  wisest  words  these  words  I  dare  distil — 
Who  best  knows  Best,  best  title  hath  to  speak, 

And  he  best  knows  who  best  hath  known  this 
'will  :— 

The  best  is  he  that  in  life's  whole  affair 

Shall  least  himself,  shall  most  his  neighbour,  spare : 

The  best  is  he  that,  straining  every  nerve, 
Shall  last  himself,  shall  first  his  people,  serve : 

The  best  is  he  that,  in  the  Holy  Dove, 

Shall  least  himself,  shall  most  his  Maker,  love. 


THE  APPROACHING  STORM  67 


THE   APPROACHING   STORM 

A  BODING  calm  pervades  the  immobile  air; 

The  birds  sound  lonely  on  their  breathless  trees : 
The  troubled  kine  rise  up  on  trembling  knees ; 

The  distant  woods  seem  huddled  in  despair  : 

With  sickly  rays  the  entranced  sun  doth  glare 
Athwart  the  fields ;  the  while  by  slow  degrees 
A  threatening  dusk  against  an  awakened  breeze 

Comes  grumbling  up  like  some  huge  grizzly-bear. 

Loud  cracks  the  thunder:  now  the  cloud  is  cleft 
With  shimmering  glances  and  fierce  forks  of  flame  : 

The  skies  are  blotted  out,  the  lands  bereft 
Of  all  distinction — feature,  tint,  or  name  : 

Down  roars  the  deluge  :  now  the  storm  's  begun — 

See  how  the  herds  for  their  poor  shelters  run  ! 


68  PILGRIMAGE 


THE   TRANSCENDENTAL   SUMMER- 
TERM 

WHEN  you  and  I,  and  he  and  he, 
Set  forth  that  noon  so  joyously, 
Sped  forth  on  wheels  beneath  the  sun, 
We  did  not  know  what  we  'd  begun. 

We  did  not  know  how  great  a  thing 
From  our  chance  amity  should  spring  ; 
We  did  not  care,  we  did  not  know — 
Ah  me,  it  all  seems  long  ago. 

We  went  to  Kelmscott  o'er  the  hills, 
'Mid  the  moist  music  of  her  rills  : 
To  Burford,  where  the  perfect  street 
In  Windrush  dips  its  ancient  feet. 

How  many  miles  we  four  have  rode 
Beside  the  noiseless  Evenlode  ! 
What  cracked  pianos  you  have  made 
To  talk  our  language  where  we  strayed ! 

Woodeaton  has  a  gentle  air  ; 
The  grass  around  the  church  is  fair, 
When  summer  o'er  the  hamlet  weaves 
Her  glancing  canopy  of  leaves. 


TRANSCENDENTAL  SUMMER-TERM     69 

Beckley  stands  high  :  'mid  her  quiet  trees 
She  guards  a  thousand  sanctities. 
On  Foresthill  the  roses  blow — 
Milton  was  wed  there  long  ago. 

Hid  Waterperry  hugs  her  state  ; 
The  pinks  still  grow  at  the  school-house  gate  : 
The  church  is  still  as  damp  and  grooved — 
The  old  Crusader  has  not  moved. 

Still  at  each  soft  evening  hour, 
Against  a  gold  sky,  Magdalen  tower 
Still  rises  up  in  regal  grace ; 
And  Tom  still  keeps  his  ancient  place. 

Still  the  Cherwell  flows  amain  ; 
And  still  old  Isis  drinks  the  rain. 
How  oft  we  heard  (far  off  in  boats) 
Tom  boom  his  thunderous  purple  notes  ! 

Tom  Quad  still  catches  all  the  air; 
The  people  still  go  strolling  there : 
Still,  through  an  evening's  misty  light, 
The  fluttering  surplices  go  white. 

Still  do  the  old  towers  toll  the  times ; 

Still  is  the  air  all  full  of  chimes  : 

Behind  some  Canon's  garden-wall 

Still  through  Spring-dusks  the  throstles  call. 


70  PILGRIMAGE 

All  Oxford  still  her  secret  holds : 
The  light  still  swims  far  down  St.  Old's ; 
St.  Giles  is  still  as  fair  and  wide ; 
St.  Mary's  steeple  cannot  hide. 

Still,  'mid  the  stars  of  summer  nights, 
Over  the  High,  the  fervent  heights 
Soar  in  sweet  psalmody  of  stone, 
Choiring  their  endless  antiphon. 


BATHING  71 


BATHING 

THERE  is  no  lovelier  kind  of  play 

Than  bathing  on  a  summer's  day  ; 

Than,  casting  all  your  clothes  away, 

To  dally  with  the  sun's  caresses, 

Or  sport  'mid  the  willows'  silver  tresses 

Or  on  the  bank's  green  lap  to  lie 

Watching  the  waters  flowing  by  ; 

Or  on  the  stream's  soft  breast  be  dandled 

Under  the  chestnut-tree,  all  candled 

With  great  big  blossoms  white  and  red, 

By  whose  huge-fingered  leaves  is  spread 

A  deep  mysterious  realm  of  shade, 

Where  you,  in  coolness  'rayed, 

May  nestle  quietly  and  lie  hid 

From  javelin-beams,  as  Hylas  did 

That  broiling  morning,  when  the  heroic  pace 

Of  Heracles  had  tired  him,  and  a  place 

Beside  cool  waters  catching  his  quick  eye 

He  lay  down  drowsily — nor  knew  how  nigh 

The  nymphs  were  drawn,  who,  enamoured  of  his 

charms, 

Wrapped  his  young  body  in  their  wet  white  arms, 
Dragging  him  downward,  till  the  brooling  stream 
Closed  o'er  his  head — forever  now  to  dream. 


72  PILGRIMAGE 


THE   TRUANT 

How  sweet  is  the  dawning  of  day, 
How  enticing  the  forests  and  fields  ! 
The  school  is  a  long  way  away, 
And  the  rod  that  the  schoolmaster  wields. 

He  will  beat  me  to-morrow  in  school : 
But  to-morrow  is  twenty-four  hours  ! 
He  will  tell  me  I  '11  grow  up  a  fool : 
But  to-day  I  will  bathe  in  a  pool, 
And  to-day  I  will  gather  the  flowers  ! 

I  will  stretch  out  my  limbs  in  the  sun, 
I  will  kick  up  my  heels  in  the  air ; 
I  will  hark  to  the  counsels  of  none, 
And  I  '11  bid  a  good-morrow  to  care. 

I  will  climb  up  tall  trees  to  the  top, 
Like  a  squirrel  I  '11  dance  on  the  boughs  ; 
And  for  lunch  I  '11  drink  water,  and  crop 
Sweet  grass  like  the  horses  and  cows. 

I  will  fall  off  to  sleep  in  the  shade ; 

I  will  shout  to  the  shout  of  the  streams, 

Whose  torrents  are  like  lemonade ; 

And  I  'II  dream  the  most  heavenly  dreams. 


THE  TRUANT  73 

What  care  I  for  learning  and  things — 
All  increase  of  knowledge  is  pain  ! 
I  will  hark  where  the  happy  bird  sings, 
And  I  '11  join  up  my  voice  to  his  strain. 

For  age  will  come  quickly  enough, 
When  I  shan't  want  to  squander  but  save ; 
When  my  limbs  will  get  clumsy  and  tough, 
And  my  face  all  hairy  and  grave : 
So  I  '11  take  what  I  have  while  I  have. 


74.  PILGRIMAGE 


THE   NIGHTINGALE 

HIGH  on  the  hill  at  even, 
Under  the  starry  heaven, 
Peace-houseled  and  night-shriven, 

I  stand ;  and  all  is  still — 

Only  the  elf-voiced  rill 

Threads  the  enchanted  darkness  of  the  ghyll. 

Then  from  the  inmost  shades 
Of  glamorous  forest-glades 
A  song  my  soul  invades.  .  .  . 

A  song,  a  passioned  song — 
Not  loud,  but  full  and  strong, 
Earthless,  and  free  from  wrong  ! 

And  art  thou  but  a  bird — 
Thou,  that  a  moment  heard 
Such  memory  hast  stirred  ? 

Hast  power,  thou  wondrous  thing, 

Such  ecstasy  to  bring 

From  that  soft  breast  beneath  that  tiny  wing  ? 


THE  NIGHTINGALE  75 

What  thoughts  come  back  to  me ! — 
The  fence  beneath  the  tree, — 
I,  tremulous, — and  she. 

The  breath  of  forest-flowers, — 
The  coolness  of  late  showers, — 
And  hours, — and  timeless  hours. 

My  blushes  and  quick  sighs, — 
Despair, — hope's  pale  surmise, — 
The  music  of  her  eyes. 

Her  girlishness  and  grace, 
Elf-form  and  child-pure  face, — 
Our  nearness  in  that  place. 

The  short  breath  of  suspense, — 
Her  hands, — my  ravished  sense, — 
Our  talk's  inconsequence. 

My  heart  that  I  could  hear, — 
That  pang  of  holy  fear 
To  feel  her  body  near. 

My  God  !     And  thou,  a  bird, 
And  but  a  moment  heard, 
Such  memory  hast  stirred  ! 

What  power,  enchanted  thing, 
Is  thine,  that  thou  canst  bring, 
From  that  soft  breast  beneath  that  tiny  wing, 


76  PILGRIMAGE 

Such  flood  of  passioned  song — 
Not  loud,  but  full  and  strong, 
Earthless,  and  free  from  wrong — 

As  from  the  inmost  shades 
Of  glamorous  forest-glades 
My  harkening  ear  invades  ? 

'Tis  hushed  :  the  night  is  still : 
Only  the  elf-voiced  rill 
Threads  the  enchanted  darkness  of  the  ghyll. 

High  on  a  hill  at  even, 
Under  a  summer  heaven, 
What  memories  are  given  ! 


TO  A  LADY  77 


TO  A  LADY 

SHE  said  she  loved  not  children  !     While  she  spoke 

The  garden  echoed  to  the  lively  noise 

Of  hers  and  others' — and  she  's  always  kind 

And  patient  with  their  prattle !     For  myself, 

I  do  not  know  what  any  love  can  mean, 

Save  patient  service  and  forgiveness  oft : 

An  abstract  love  is  but  a  cloudy  thing, 

And  who  loves  one  thing  well,  well  loveth  all. 

I  do  not  know  what  people  mean  who  speak 

Vague  things  and  pompous  of  humanity  ; 

Humanity  has  no  existence,  save 

In  our  back-kitchen  or  our  nursery. 

I  think  her  loving  not  children  is  the  same 

As  when  she  said  she  is  not  beautiful. 


78  PILGRIMAGE 


TO  THE  ROSES  ON  MY  WALL 

'Tis  said  that  poets  must  not  treat  of  you, 

Fair  Queens  of  June  new-blown  against  my  wall, 
That  such  old  praises  must  give  place  to  new, 

For  on  our  ears  these  out-worn  airs  do  pall. 
Fierce  wars  and  feuds  we  raise  but  cannot  still, 

Men  girt  with  vengeance  and  with  wrath  iron- 
shod, 
And  hellish  tools  too  competent  to  kill 

Botching  the  sacred  artistry  of  God — 
Are  these  new  tales  ?     While  yet  in  you  doth  show 

That  far  fair  land  forbidden  unto  pride, 
Which  hatred  cannot  reach,  where  rage  not  go; 

But  Mercy,  Meekness,  at  the  wounded  side 
Of  Him  do  sit  Whose  human  eyes  were  strange  : 
Not  Truth,  not  Beauty,  but  the  world  must  change. 


MACHINERY  79 


MACHINERY 

OURS  is  an  age,  men  say,  of  engineers, 

Of  speed,  high  pressures,  and  resistless  heat ; 
We  smother  daily  with  the  grit  of  sneers 

The  few  that  still  go  questing  on  their  feet. 
But,  as  for  me,  I  do  not  scorn  these  toys, 

Nor  much  regard  them  :  we  indeed  might  spare 
Perhaps  some  boasting  and  a  deal  of  noise  : 

The  things  themselves  are  neither  here  nor  there. 
For,  after  all,  no  aeroplane  can  lift 

The  heart  from  trouble,  or  the  soul  from  stress ; 
Nor  can  a  painted  wheel,  however  swift, 

Bring  us  by  turning  unto  happiness  : 
No  huge  contrivance  of  steel,  stone,  or  wood, 
Can  lend  us  wisdom  or  can  make  us  good. 


80  PILGRIMAGE 


THE  HILL 

IN  the  city's  western  purlieus, 
Off  the  fairest  of  her  causeways, 
There's  a  hill  that  rises  starkly 

O'er  the  clamour  of  the  town  ; 
And  its  name  might  be  Golgotha, 
For  its  houses  all  are  skull-like, 
Their  windows  glare  like  sockets 

In  a  fixed  and  sightless  frown. 

Its  streets  are  gaunt,  forbidding  : 
They  cut  at  curt  right-angles  : 
And  you  skulk,  a  hunted  atom, 

'Mid  their  cliff's  of  builded  stone  : 
And  you  breathe  the  air  that  rises 
From  a  thousand  belching  chimneys, 
Till  you  feel  half-choked  and  scarcely 

Dare  call  your  soul  your  own. 

There  's  a  hospital  to  cheer  you, 
All  yellow-washed,  with  windows 
Blank,  glazed  and  hygienic, 
And  little  gruesome  domes. 


THE  HILL  81 

There 's  an  art-school,  vast  and  freakish, 
Detestably  artistic ; 
And  a  dozen  institutions, 
And  a  score  of  nursing-homes. 


There  are  closes,  dank  and  dismal ; 

And  tiny  blasted  gardens 

In  the  black  lee  of  the  houses, 

And  a  piercing  i-eek  of  cat : 
And  the  houses  seem  unpeopled — 
For  you  never  see  them  entered  ; 
But  perhaps  a  pale  face  glimmers 

From  some  very  topmost  flat. 

There 's  a  synagogue  where  Hebrews 
Creep  silently  like  shadows 
To  worship  on  the  Sabbath 

Their  God  that  still  shall  save. 
And  the  city  roars  beneath  you 
With  a  hoarse  and  hollow  menace, 
Like  the  menace  in  the  backwash 

Of  some  fierce  and  frustrate  wave. 


O  God,  the  dereliction, 
The  awful  lonely  silence, 
The  frozen  naked  horror, 
Of  this  Gorgon  of  a  hill ! 
F 


82  PILGRIMAGE 

How  shall  I  understand  it  ? 
Where  seek  for  consolation 
From  the  horrors  that  assail  me, 
Turn  where  soe'er  I  will  ? 

But  see,  divine,  inspiring, 
Above  the  blasted  house-tops, 
A  campanile  rising, 

A  cross  of  flaming  gold  ! 
Oh,  truest  understanding  ! 
Oh,  dearest  consolation ! 
No  horrors  can  confound  me, 

For  Christ  is  here  to  hold ! 


'I  BLESS  PEACE'  83 


'I  BLESS  PEACE' 

(POPE  PIUS  x.) 

PEACE  do  I  bless,  and  meekness,  ay,  and  right, 
Which  are  not  changed,  for  all  men's  hearts  are 

base; 
Which  do  not  move,  for  all  men  mock  the  face 

Of  Christ,  preferring  darkness  to  His  light. 

I  bless  not  tyrants,  nor  the  hideous  might 
Of  armies  lusting,  nor  the  unworthy  chase 
Of  worthless  glories,  nor  the  foul  disgrace 

Of  bowels  exulting  in  a  world's  despite. 

The  travailing  states  I  weep  for  while  I  pray  : 
Their  endless  scheming  and  their  vaulting  pride 

I  do  not  curse,  for  in  God's  holy  sight 

Shall  no  man  dare.     Not  this  nor  that  array 
Of  arms  I  bless.     While  warring  men  deride, 

Peace  do  I  bless,  and  meekness,  ay,  and  right. 


84  PILGRIMAGE 


THE  FRONT 

INCESSANT  shells :  a  tearing  screech,  and  thud  ! — 
One  finds  its  earth  nearby  where  some  are  laid 
These  cower  down  closely,  itching  and  afraid  : 

Their  nostrils  loathe  the  unmentionable  mud. 

Up  to  their  knees,  or  loins,  a  stinking  flood ; 
Around  and  at  them  lead  forever  sprayed ; 
And  sometimes  o'er  them  in  swift  vicious  raid 

Some  waspish  aeroplane  athirst  for  blood. 

Long  hours  before  them,  little  food,  no  rest ; 

Thralls  to  the  insensate  lust  of  some  machine  ; 
Corpses  for  company,  and  the  myriad  pest 

Of  huge  gross  rats  pot-bellied  and  obscene  ! 
Such  is  the  life  which  thousands  daily  live — 
With  wounds  or  death  for  sole  alternative. 


THE  MILITARY  HOSPITAL  85 


THE  MILITARY  HOSPITAL 

THE  long  broad  corridors  smell  deathly  clean ; 

The  floors  are   speckless,  polished   smooth,  and 
bare; 

A  twilight  broods  of  strait  and  sterile  air, 
Shot  with  strange  odours  composite  and  keen. 
A  distant  pulse  as  of  some  vast  machine 

Throbs   through    the  building's  content ;  every- 
where 

At  blank  white  walls  the  blanker  windows  stare 
With  ruthless  candour,  that  the  wreck  be  seen.  .  .  . 

O  God,  my  God,  that  this  mad  thing  should  be  ! 

That  this  vast  place,  so  intricately  vain, 
This  demon's  joke,  this  strained  futility, 

With  its  huge  sum  of  bravery  and  brain, 
Should  all  repair  (but  scarce)  our  own  self-will, 
With  strife  to  keep  what  strife  first  strives  to  kill. 


86  PILGRIMAGE 


TO  ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

SIR  INVALID  POET,  no  haemorrhage  could  tame 
To  invalid  songs  ;  whose  few  tormented  days 
Yet  with  keen  joy  vociferate  the  praise 

Of  life  and  love  :  thy  rippling  threefold  name 

Sounds  in  our  ears,  as  to  undying  fame, 

As  that  which  tells  of  bold  adventurous  ways, 
Crisp  mountain  airs,  deep  seas,  and  bloody  frays, 

As  though  a  sword  might  speak,  or  winds  proclaim. 

Wondrous  it  is  that  thou,  who  scarce  could  breathe 
For  lack  of  lung,  yet  should  bring  forth  such  bright 

Far-glittering  things  :  thou  lovedst  to  unsheathe 
Thy  falchion-spirit  in  that  deadliest  fight 

Where  sickness  cannot  wrest,  nor  all  his  dole, 

Combat's  high  rapture  from  the  true-knighted  soul. 


TO  IVAN  TURGENEV  87 


TO  IVAN  TURGENEV 

'Mm  alien  peoples  them  hast  led  me  thralled, 
Where  on  bleak  steppes  as  in  our  gentler  clime 
Those  old  old  problems  of  no  place  or  time 

Crush  men  to  earth,  reluctant  and  much  galled. 

Thy  pages,  Master,  are  a  kingdom  walled, 

Where  dwells  true  poesy,  though  not  in  rhyme, 
And  limpid  truth  :  not  nerves,  not  filth  nor  crime, 

With  which  our  stomach  of  to-day  is  stalled. 

'Tis  sad  admission,  but  alas  'tis  truth 

From  our  experience  seems  quite  passed  away 

That  absolute  beauty,  that  more  perfect  youth, 
For  which  men  quested  in  a  former  day ; 

And  our  poor  souls,  that  round  the  table  sit, 

Are  proffered  scorpions  of  perverted  wit. 


88  PILGRIMAGE 


TO  JANE  AUSTEN 

REMOTELY  moonlike  and  most  moonlike  cold, 
Feat-probing  priestess,  subtle  and  serene, 
Of  all  our  quills  unquestioned  you  are  queen  ; 

Your  reedlike  sceptre  is  the  purest  gold. 

'Neath  your  prim  spell,  what  gardens  have  I  strolled, 
What  discourse  heard,  into  what  windows  seen  ! 
What  lacked  that 's   comic  or  what  lost  that 's 
keen ! 

What  subauditions  with  a  fine  tongue  rolled  ! 

Masterly  mistress,  though  the  muslin  gown, 

The  horse-drawn  traffic  and  coat-tails,  are  gone, 

Yet  do  I  think  that  I  in  this  small  town 

Could  match  the  manners  that  you  dwelt  upon  : 

Small  ostentations,  little  vain  deceits, 

Whims,  follies,  friendships,  tiffs,  and  paltry  heats. 


TO  MONTAIGNE  89 


TO  MONTAIGNE 

ORACULAR  Burgess,  from  your  mayor's  high  seat 
Observing  all  things  with  an  equal  eye, 
Into  what  pranks  and  practices  you  pry 

With  curious  gaze  :  of  everything  you  treat, 

The  throne,  the  mart,  the  chamber,  and  the  street, 
How  men  are  born,  how  live,  and  how  they  die, 
Into  all  niceties  of  whence,  how,  and  why, 

With  sage  dispassion  arid  no  trace  of  heat. 

Of  Moderation,  whose  high  praise  you  wrote, 

What  have  we  now  ?     A  world  gone  mad  with 
rage  ! 

Fingers  that  itch  to  clutch  a  brother's  throat ! 
Here  were  rich  themes  for  your  impartial  page  ! 

But  as  in  your  past  day,  Staid  Sir,  so  now 

Wise  counsel  must  unto  rash  frenzies  bow. 


90  PILGRIMAGE 


TO   AN   OLD   WOMAN   SITTING   BY 
A   GRAVE 

WHAT  do  you,  Gammer,  in  this  mortal  place, 
Whose  feet  so  surely  to  the  same  bourne  tend  ? 
Is  that  the  bed  of  some  departed  friend 

By  which  you  sit,  that  stone  the  honoured  trace 

Of  some  long-loved  and  well-remembered  face  ? 
Wisely  you  pause ;  but  here  no  tears  expend  : 
Who  hath  well  lived,  to  such  is  death  no  end, 

But  Spring  forever  and  the  crowning  grace. 

What  is  our  life  ?     A  toiling  and  a  fear, 

Isled  joys  infrequent  'mid  the  brackish  sea ; 

Brief  Spring,  brief  Summer,  and  an  Autumn  sere 
Falling  to  Winter — as  is  now  with  thee  : 

This  then  is  life,  which  one  well  summeth  so — 

To  be,  to  do,  to  do  without,  and  go. 


TO  THE  CATHOLIC  CHAPEL,  THAME    91 


TO   THE  CATHOLIC   CHAPEL,  THAME 

WHICH    WAS    IN    USE    AS    A    CHAPEL    HUNDREDS 
OF    YEARS    BEFORE    THE    REFORMATION 

GOD  doth  return :  as  oft  as  we  expel 

His  SACRED  PRESENCE,  as  His  shrines  we  sack, 
God  doth  return,  and  surely  render  back 

To  priest  his  altar,  to  recluse  his  cell. 

God  doth  return,  as  this  same  place  could  tell, 
Which    through    long    years    hath    known    His 

grievous  lack, 
But  now  once  more  along  a  well-worn  track 

Swift  feet  doth  summon  by  the  sacring-bell. 

As  to  His  shrines,  so  to  the  souls  of  men 
God  doth  return  :  He  will  not  quite  away  : 

But,  oft  denied,  as  oft  doth  ask  again, 
And  so  forever  till  the  latest  day : 

Ay,  at  the  last,  when  fear  not  love  doth  call, 

God  will  come  back,  and,  come,  forgive  us  all 


92  PILGRIMAGE 


4  GREAT  SPIRITS   NOW  ON   EARTH 
ARE   SOJOURNING1— KEATS 

GREAT  spirits  now  no  more  are  sojourning 
On  earth  amongst  us :  we  no  more  desire 
The  dazzling  lustre  of  Promethean  fire, 

The  heats  and  frigours  of  the  breath  of  Spring. 

What  men  do  most  demand,  that  self-same  thing 
Shall  they  obtain  :  while  they  shall  still  require 
No  more  than  these,  small  souls  shall  hardly  tire 

Of  hovering  downward  on  a  venal  wing. 

Let  Dante  tell  of  angels,  who  would  care  ? 

We  crown  some  charlatan  and  gorge  his  lie  : 
Amid  the  intriguing  of  our  base  affair 

We  scorn  the  prophets,  and  the  poets  let  die  : 
Of  all  the  untold  projections  of  the  brain 
Those  only  languish  which  are  to  our  gain. 


TO  IRELAND  93 


TO   IRELAND 

LAND  of  the  Saints,  round  whose  green  shores  'tis 

said 

A  lonely  maid  might  wander  all  unharmed, 
What   poets   have   loved   thee  and   thy   praises 

psalmed, 

For  thy  sweet  sake  what  patriots  have  bled  ! 
Still  o'er  thine  earth  doth  that  white  mystic  bread 
Rise  with  the  morning ;  still  by  His  strange  eyes 

charmed, 

When  others  leave  Him  and  are  sore  alarmed, 
From  Christ's  humility  thou  hast  not  fled. 

Thee  do  I  love,  for  of  thee  have  divined 
A  lovelier  secret  than  before  I  knew  ; 
With  lint  of  justice  and  with  healing  dew 

Of  penitent  tears  thy  wounds  would  wash  and  bind  ; 

Yea,  for  in  thee,  in  thy  pure  soul,  do  find 
That  rarest  joy,  a  faery-tale  come  true. 


94  PILGRIMAGE 


A   HARD   SAYING 

CONCLUSIONS  come  not  with  much  thinking ; 
Thought  breeds  only  thought  again  : 
Knowledge  is  of  contemplation, 
And  of  patience,  and  of  pain. 

Poet,  throw  away  your  theories  ! 
Unto  God  in  silence  draw  : 
And,  returning,  tell  us  briefly 
What  you  heard  and  what  you  saw. 


THE  VICTORY  OF  THE  WISE          95 


THE   VICTORY   OF  THE   WISE 

THE  truly  wise  man  but  affirms ; 

He  will  not  argue  nor  explain  : 

The  things  he  knows  are  known  indeed, 

And  these  things  shall  remain. 

The  little  man  that  pulls  at  words, 
That  squeaks  and  gibbers  and  opines, 
He  shall  obtain  the  victory 
By  all  external  signs. 

And  he  shall  mount  a  little  throne 
And  be  by  all  extolled  : 
And  the  angels  laugh  ha-ha  while  he 
Doth  wither  and  grow  old. 

And  all  the  while  the  wise  perceive 
The  simple  face  of  Truth, 
And  feel  throughout  their  members  all 
An  undiminished  youth. 

They  smile  upon  the  little  men 
So  busy  on  the  ground, 
Who  dance  for  rage  and  marshal  all 
Their  logic  to  astound. 


96  PILGRIMAGE 

Alas,  alas,  ye  little  men, 
You  cannot  touch  them  so  ! 
The  wise  are  fixed  as  any  star> 
For  what  they  know  they  know. 


RHYMES  FOR  THE  ROAD  97 


RHYMES  FOR  THE   ROAD 

LIFE  is  a  gift  : 

Ay,  though  it  gall, 
Perplex,  appal, 

Life  is  a  gift. 

Joy  is  a  duty  : 

Ay,  since  all  sorrow 
Endeth  to-morrow, 

Joy  is  a  duty. 

Loving  is  serving  : 

Ay,  for  true  love 

Lifteth  above 
All  other  serving. 

Pain  is  our  teacher  : 

Ay,  with  his  cup 

Bitter  to  sup, 
Pain  is  our  teacher. 

Christ  is  our  guide  : 

Ay,  and  He  may, 

Knowing  the  way, 
Well  be  our  guide. 


98  PILGRIMAGE 

Death  is  a  friend  : 
Ay,  though  his  shade 
Maketh  afraid, 

Death  is  a  friend. 

God  is  our  home  : 
Ay,  and  forever, 
Failing  us  never, 

God  is  our  home. 


DESIRE  AND  ACHIEVEMENT  99 


DESIRE   AND   ACHIEVEMENT 

WHEN,  as  my  days  draw  onward,  my  poor  best 
Still  stretches  weakling  arms  as  to  the  sky  ; 
When  wistful  Aprils  and  fain  Junes  flee  by 

Leaving  my  love  still  pent  within  my  breast ; 

When  all  mine  ardour  must  be  unconfessed  ; 
And  my  few  strings,  because  my  soul  is  dry, 
Mute  and  unstrung  :  then  have  I  much  to  try 

Firm  trust  in  Him  Who  hath  ordained  this  test. 

Yet  will  I  gird  me,  and  this  day  begin, 
With  quiet  obedience  and  unbending  will, 

Of  my  bare  fields  to  bind  and  garner  in 

The  scrannel  sheaves ;  and  if  they  hardly  fill 

One  tiniest  barn,  yet  is  my  time  not  lost  : 

God  sees  our  harvests  by  the  toil  they  cost. 


100  PILGRIMAGE 


DESIRE   AND   ACHIEVEMENT 

So  much  projected,  and  so  scarce  achieved 

The  least  faint  semblance  of  the  things  I  saw  ! 
Oh,  frdm  what  source  shall  my  foiled  vision  draw 

Her  needed  solace  ?     If  I  have  believed, 

I  need  not  ask,  nor  be  unduly  grieved, 
Because  I  fail :  the  fundamental  flaw 
Of  flesh  irked  Shakespeare's  self — as  it  were  straw 

From  cancelling  flames  his  best  but  just  reprieved  ! 

What  though  it  gall  us,  'tis  a  glorious  quest 

This  we  have  sworn  ;  wherein  we  may  not  sheathe 

Our  keen  endeavour  while  the  attainless  Best 
Hangs  still  beyond  us  :  while  I  live  and  breathe, 

All  undiminished,  shall  my  straight  desire 

Yearn  unto  heaven  like  a  fair-builded  spire. 


Printed  by  T.  and  A.  CONSTABLE,  Printers  to  His  Majesty 
at  the  Edinburgh  University  Press,  Scotland 


A- ••'••"ill  mil  mil  lllllllii  i, 
000  561  934     1 


